


The long Way down

by Sheriarty



Category: Inception (2010), The Drop (2014)
Genre: Alternate Universe, Emotional Manipulation, Emotional Trauma, Implied animal abuse, M/M, Mental Health Issues, Minor Character Death, Moral Ambiguity, Non-Chronological, POV Alternating, Past Character Death, Religious Conflict, The Drop AU, alternative universe - the drop AU, implied non consensual, not between the main pairing, past Arthur/Robert, puppy, recluse Arthur
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2021-03-03
Updated: 2021-03-13
Packaged: 2021-03-16 09:41:47
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 4,945
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29823030
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Sheriarty/pseuds/Sheriarty
Summary: While desperately scrubbing the sleeve of your jacket, the pristine white light of your bathroom light flickering on and off, you wonder... Would you have stayed on your back porch all those weeks ago if you'd known this is how it all ends?Deep down, you already know, you would have done it all over again. Because otherwise you would have never met him.[The Drop!AU - shameless self-indulgence, because I love that movie and I love Arthur and Eames and I wanted to put them into these roles and see them with a puppy :D]
Relationships: Arthur/Eames (Inception)
Comments: 6
Kudos: 7





	1. chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> I just wanted to write a The-Drop!AU and here it is. I had to change a few things here and there to fit my picture of the story and had to adjust characters a little here and there. You don't have to have watched the movie to read this, but I would advise to give it a look anyway, because it's such a great movie and it has Tom Hardy and a puppy, so what else do you need?

## Prolog

> _While desperately scrubbing the sleeve of your jacket, the pristine white light of your bathroom light flickering on and off, you wonder... Would you have stayed on your back porch all those weeks ago if you'd known this is how it all ends?_
> 
> _Blood is pounding in your ears and blood is mixing with water in your sink, coloring it pink._
> 
> _What would have happened, you wonder. What would you have done if you’d known?_
> 
> _There is no helping it._
> 
> _You didn't stay on your back porch, did you? You didn't. And now a man is dead and it's your fault and you won't tell anyone about it. And you don’t feel as bad about it as you should._
> 
> _Deep down, you already know, you would have done it all over again. Because otherwise you would have never met him._
> 
> _Does this make you a bad person, you wonder. Or does it make you a good one?_
> 
> _Are there even good and bad men? Or are there only men. And their actions. And can you tell the difference?_

## Chapter 1

“Next drink, he’s paying”.

“Come on, Peter… that guy _can’t_ pay”.

“How much is on his tap anyway? 100 bucks?”

“… 145”.

“Fuck’s sake, Eames. Stop giving out drinks for free, we’re not charity”.

“Peter-”

“No. He pays or he leaves. And no smoking, either. And take down this Christmas shit, it’s December 27, for fuck’s sake,” Browning grunts, before stomping out of his bar, leaving Eames to stand by the counter, drying glasses with a cloth. 

Eames sighs to himself and turns his back to Dom, who’s nipping on his drink, smoking, liquid eyes red rimmed and welling with tears, as he stares into empty space. It’s a fucking tragedy to watch.

“.. I gotta... charge you for the next one, Dom,” Eames murmurs later, when it’s only the two of them left and Cobb looks up, blinks. 

“Oh, yes- yes of course, I’m sorry, of course..” he mutters, before starting to search around in his pockets. Eames closes his eyes briefly, pouring him another thumbs worth, not looking at the man, whose hands are shaking violently, when he pulls out what looks like a small silver spinning top. Eames hears his shuddering breath and fair enough, when he glances up, Cobb is crying silently again, while looking at the little toy, making it spin on the counter before him. Eames pretends not to have seen, turning away to give him privacy.

Dominic Cobb – he wandered into Pete’s Bar a few weeks ago, looking like a man having lost his way of life. These types strayed into their bar, like moths straying into light. 

After three nights, many drinks and a lot of silence he had told Eames about his wife committing suicide, how he lost child’s custody and how all that he had left was an empty house he had to sell to pay the lawyers and an empty heart he wanted to fill with alcohol. Not even his best friend talked to him much anymore. He was allowed to see his kids every two weeks under supervision as if he was a criminal.

Eames hadn’t charged him for a single drink since that day.

Eames takes the few crumbled dollar bills from Dom’s hand and smiles, nodding, “S’fine, mate,” and goes to put it into the register, before taking out his own wallet and putting the rest of Cobb’s tap in, while Dom still stares at the top that toppled over a few minutes ago.

* * *

Eames goes to church every Sunday. It’s the only day he doesn’t work and he wakes up in that empty house and leaves it to come here. Not because he is looking forward to it. He can’t say he is a devoted believer. He knows his fate. But he wants to be out of that house. He can’t bear to be in it alone all day. 

He sits in the rows next to barely familiar faces, telling himself that he doesn’t feel as lost and lonely as he does. Tells himself that he feels comfort among people in the house of God, receiving words of their Lord through the mouth of Father Regan.

He doesn’t get up to go stand in line with the others for the Lord’s Supper. He’s not a devoted believer, but he still feels like it would be rude. Hypocritical. He sits in his row, watches them, hands folded in his lap, before standing up at some point and leaving. Sometimes people walk past him, recognize his face from walking past it every Sunday and they nod and he nods back.

_You wonder, as you wander along the dark metal fence of the church after service, the coldness of December seeping through your clothes, through your skin and bones into your very soul. Does it make you a faithful man, a good person, if you go to Church every Sunday? It chills you to the core and you hurry your steps along._

_Does it make you a good person if you believe in good and evil? When you work in a bar that has been taken over by the Japanese mafia and used as a drop off bar for exchanging money that shouldn’t be exchanged? When you know that, wherever that money came from, it got blood on it that could color rivers red? If you got blood on your hands that runs water pink?_

_You continue to work there. Day in, day out. When you are so indifferent to the world, to the crimes around you, that you feel like a blunted piece of glass by the shore?_

_Does it make you a good person to know that you are a sinner? Or does it make you an even worse man if you know it and don’t care? Telling yourself you gotta do, what you gotta do. Judgment is for the dead, you suppose._

Eames stares at the heating oil tank in his basement, when he is alone again, alone in his parent’s home. 

It’s too late for him to change anything. He has already taken the slow elevator down to hell and there is no going back from there.

* * *

Eames stops short, when he hears it. His own breath is floating in white puffs in front of his face, reflected by the light of the street lights. He frowns as he listens and then slowly turns to the sounds of scratching, shuffling and muffled whines. 

It is coming from the trash behind a low fence of one of the houses and for a second he is contemplating walking off – it’s probably just a raccoon, searching for scraps at night. But the whining doesn’t stop and Eames bites his brittle bottom lip, before walking back, opening the latch on the fence and stepping into the front yard to get to the trash can and open it. 

“Oh... oh, what are you doing in there?” he breathes out, puzzled, when he recognizes a small, black dog from the street lamp shining half way into it. “You don’t belong in there, sweetheart…” 

It’s shivering, violently. No wonder, it is cold enough tonight that every breath needles in his lungs.

He reaches into the trash when a voice from the house addresses him: “Hey! What are you doing there?”

Eames takes the dog out, which is whining and wiggling slightly, paper and trash sticking to its paws. “There’s a-… there’s a dog in your trash,” he replies, holding the wiggling dog – it’s a puppy, he realizes – an arm length away from himself. 

“What?”

“There is a dog in your trash,” Eames repeats, turning to look at the source of the voice. In the shadow besides the house he can see the shape of a person walking towards him, the tell-tale glow of a cigarette barely illuminating his features. 

“It’s a puppy,” Eames adds and when the dog starts to wriggle too much, he almost loses his grip and pulls the dog to his chest, dirty paws be damned. “Someone must have put it in your trash,” Eames elaborates to the man who slowly comes closer, stepping out of the shadow of the house now. He is pale, dark hair and his eyes are sharp and dark, too, sitting under two brows that are furrowed together abrasively. 

Eames looks back to the dog and blinks, because that’s not dirt. “He’s bleeding,” Eames mutters, and his chest constricts, “Poor darling, what happened to you?”

“What?”

“I said, he’s bleeding,” Eames repeats, louder, as he looks back up to the guy, not understanding why he is stopping so far away, when he can’t even hear him. Snow is falling between them, the air is biting.

The guy is staring at him, dark eyes narrowed and suspicious, then they drop to the dog and his brows twitch, his mouth drawing into a tight line. He sucks on his cigarette again, almost a little frantic, before snipping it away.

“What’s your name?” he asks Eames then, smoke billowing out of his mouth and nose while he speaks and fishes out his phone. He has a beautiful face, Eames notices.

“What?”

“Your name. License.”

“What?” Eames repeats, the dog shivering against his chest and reaching up to press its cold nose to his stubbly chin.

“Show me your license. I won’t just let you come into my house, bleeding dog be damned,” the guy snaps, impatient and Eames blinks, guessing that to be fair. 

“It’s in my right pocket, in my wallet. You can take-“, the puppy wriggles again and Eames has to shift his grip, “You can take it out”.

“You take it out”.

“My hands are kind of full, here”.

“Then put the puppy down”.

Eames looks at him funnily and his arms tighten a little more around the puppy.

They stare at each other.

The guy sighs, breath fogging around him. He comes closer, reluctantly though, looking at Eames the whole time, as if waiting for him to throw the dog at him or pull out a knife. Or spontaneously combust.

After the guy has taken a picture of his license and sent it to his friends, he allows Eames into his house.

His name is Arthur, Eames learns, while they stand in his small kitchen and treat the puppy’s wounds. Or more like, Arthur is treating them, while Eames holds the dog, holds him while Arthur washes the dirt and blood carefully off him. His face is unreadable, but his hands impossibly gentle with the little creature. His fingers are long and slender and pale, and blood and water run over them, as he washes the dog. Eames is mesmerized. 

“These are contusions”.

“What?” 

Eames snaps out of his staring and looks away from where he had been studying Arthur’s profile the moment Arthur looks up to him. “Contusions. Someone beat him up,” Arthur repeats and Eames looks to him again, seeing the deep frown on his face and doesn’t answer.

“Are you a vet?” Eames wonders a little later, still holding the dog, now wrapped in an old towel. They’re sitting at the kitchen table, while Arthur applies some sort of salve or cream on the open wounds on the puppy’s body, using a Q-tip. 

“No. I... I am not,” Arthur answers and it sounds as if he had wanted to say something else but stopped himself just in time. Eames doesn’t press, just watches him apply the salve. Eames hums gently. The dog turns its face to lick his chin at the sound and Eames reels back a bit, blinking. 

“He likes you,” Arthur comments, using the opening to apply some cream to a spot behind the dog’s ear. Eames lets the dog lick his stubby chin, ignoring the dog’s terrible breath, so Arthur can continue his treatment.

“It’s going to be hard to find a home for him,” Arthur murmurs, when he is done. 

“For a boxer?”

“This is a Pit bull.”

Eames takes his fingers, which he had let the puppy chew on, back to himself, blinking. “That’s a dangerous dog”.

The look he receives makes him immediately feel ashamed saying that out loud, and he watches Arthur reach out to caress the small soft ear that isn’t injured.

“He’s not dangerous. Whoever hit a small creature like that is dangerous,” Arthur mutters as he leans closer to the dog and Eames’ eyes land on an ugly red scar peeking out right under Arthur’s ear in that moment. 

Arthur notices his gaze and even though Eames is quick to avert his eyes again, Arthur’s face shuts off and he gets up to put his things away, starting to talk: “You will need a cradle for him, something to make him feel safe. I have a few old towels and a bowl, but you got to buy him-“

“Wait, what?” Eames interrupts him, cradling the dog against his chest again in fear he might otherwise try to leap from the table. “I don’t- no,” he shakes his head and steps towards Arthur, who startles and takes a step back. Eames immediately feels bad and shuffles back again. 

Arthur’s face hardens. “What are you going to do otherwise? Put him back in my trash?”

“No, No. I’ll bring him to the authorities”.

“To the shelter”.

“Yes.”

“Nobody’s going to take a pit bull. You said it yourself. And when nobody takes him, you know what happens,” Arthur reminds him cruelly and Eames twitches, the dog wriggling to lick his chin again.

“You’ll take him with you,” Arthur tells him, looking at him resolutely, but Eames just continues to shake his head, “No, I can’t-... I never had a dog. You take him-“, he retorts, holding the dog out to Arthur again. What is Eames supposed to do with a dog? Arthur shakes his head as well, crossing his arms. “No, I don’t have time for a dog”.

“Please? You know how to handle- you have had a dog before? You-,“ Eames is pushing the wriggling dog against Arthur’s chest, but doesn’t let go until Arthur’s arms go around the bundle.

“I can’t, Eames,” Arthur replies and shakes his head, too and Eames takes a step back, while the dog twists its head to look after him with his little, black eyes. 

“I need to think about this. It’s a big responsibility. Can you keep him for a few days? Until the weekend? Until Saturday?”

“Eames-“Arthur starts, but Eames has already rushed to get his jacket on and makes half a run to the porch door.

“Until Saturday!” Arthur calls after him and Eames yells back: “Until Saturday Morning! I’ll come by again!” and then he is out of the house and isn’t planning on ever coming back.

_When you find a poor creature, beaten and left to die in a trash can and you help it - does it make you a good man? Or does it make you a lonely man, hoping for any kind of contact to come out of this situation that isn’t you pouring a semi-stranger a glass of alcohol and hoping for an appreciative smile in return? Or a nod from a stranger in a house of god that should feel warm, but only makes you feel as cold as the December morning?_


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> TW: brief description of past abusive relationship, past manipulative relationship

## Chapter 2

He doesn’t expect him back. The way he practically fled the scene as soon as Arthur told him to take the dog was telling enough.

He is already pondering what to do with the dog, maybe put him online or offer him to Cobb – God knows he could use some distraction.

So, it comes to his surprise, when the doorbell rings and it’s him, standing there on his porch with that slouch in his shoulders. Such a big man able to appear so… timid and unintimidating. Everything about him is calm and slow and non-threatening. 

Arthur still doesn’t completely understand what happened that night, how he just let that stranger into his home. How he had managed not to have a complete meltdown.

Arthur looks through the peephole for longer than necessary and he is sure Eames knows he is standing on the other side of the door. He has his hands in his pockets, standing a few feet away from the entrance and demonstratively avoids looking at the door, as if giving Arthur his official permission to look at him for as long as he needs. As if he knows. It should unnerve Arthur, but he is just grateful.

“He’s happy to see you,” Arthur observes, when Eames is crouching on the ground, letting the dog gnaw on his jeans leg and then his thick fingers, smiling a little uncertainly. There is a strange sort of serenity about it, too.

He is big, Eames, but the way he hunkers down makes him seem smaller. He lets the dog go absolutely wild on him without even blinking. Arthur can’t say he ever met such a docile person. But Arthur doesn’t trust his own judgment much more these days. 

Eames looks up to him briefly, over his shoulders and flashes him a small smile, as if he is grateful for that comment, before letting his eyes rest on the small bundle of things Arthur had gathered for him. He looks back down to the dog, and mutters something Arthur can’t quite make out, so he comes around and crouches down next to him. They briefly exchange looks, but Eames doesn’t repeat himself. The dog looks in Arthur’s direction, wagging his tail like crazy, but doesn’t let go of Eames’ pant leg.

“I don’t know…” Eames mutters when Arthur puts the bag of things into the truck and he turns to him with a lifted brow, ready for another argument about taking the dog or not. Eames isn’t looking at him, but at the dog, biting his lip, his face screwed up in uncertainty. “I don’t know what I’m doing”.

Arthur takes pity on him, although he is anxious outside and wants to crawl onto his couch again. “.. We can go shopping for him,” he suggests and the way Eames’ eyes light up in relief when he looks at him is rewarding in a way. Arthur forgets about his couch.

Watching Eames wander around the aisles aimlessly with the puppy in his arms is… adorable. There is no other word for it. Arthur catches himself watching him, with the basket full of dog food and other equipment, while Eames shows the puppy some toys on the wall, as if it’s the animal’s decision which one to buy. 

He wants to call the dog ‘Rocco’ and when Arthur asks why, Eames flusters slightly and shrugs his massive shoulders, so Arthur lets it go and instead shows him what he put into the basket for Rocco. 

Arthur can’t remember the last time he felt so alright to go outside with someone else around for longer than fifteen minutes. 

Something about it later nags on him, though.

It takes him a while, but when he sits in his living room later, drinking his tea, he identifies this slightly nagging feeling in the back of his mind … as disappointment. That Eames drove him back home, thanked him again and then left without anything else. No lingering, no asking for his number maybe or meeting up again or anything like that. 

When he realizes this, Arthur needs to put the tea cup down. He stares at the screen of his laptop for a whole twenty minutes. 

_What?_

_When was the last time you went out with someone? Got in a car with someone? When was the last time you interacted with someone that wasn’t the cashier?_

_What does it make you, feeling disappointed that someone doesn’t seem to want any more contact after you avoided contact with everyone for so long? Do you think you deserve it after helping?_

_What does it mean, when you isolate yourself so much after being hurt that every human interaction becomes torture and you only realize how much you missed it after fate forcefully shoves someone into your life? Is it a sign? Is it a coincidence? Do you miss people or did you just meet someone special and let them go?_

* * *

They have never been robbed. Nobody tries to rob them. People know who the bar really belongs to.

Which is why Eames just freezes for a second when the masked men enter, drawing their weapons and snapping orders. He immediately lifts his hands up, the mob falling with a clatter to the ground. He doesn’t say anything. But Peter does.

“Hey- hey, alright… all good. Believe me, I’m doing you a favor here: Do you know who this bar belongs to?”

Eames wants to hit him over the head. You don’t talk to these sort of people. You just do what they say. They anxious, skittish, Eames can see it in the way they’re swinging the guns around, throwing each other looks and yelling at them to shut up. One wrong word and they’ll shoot.

“Shut the fuck up and give me the money!” one of them growls at Peter, who is lifting his hands, “Alright, alright,” and filling the bag that has been thrown at him. Eames just stays silent, watching them, but not looking directly at them.

When they’re gone later and the police is asking about them, Eames tells the officer (“call me Yusuf, pal”) about the watch he saw one of the thieves wearing. The hands of the watch had been on 6:10, although it had been almost two in the morning. That’s all he knows. This and that they stole five grands. Money that the real owner of the bar will want back.

“Why the fuck did you tell them about the watch?” Peter snarls at him later and Eames, blinks and shrugs.

“I don’t know. It just came out.”

“It just came out?”

“Yeah.”

“How about you keep your mouth shut next time?”

Eames doesn’t get why it’s such a disaster he told the Police and he gives Peter a look, frowning. Peter scoffs and mutters something, turning away from him. Eames watches him go, narrowing his eyes further. Why does Peter care what he told the police? As if he doesn't want them to get any clues on the thieves.

Saito visits them the next day. He knows about the watch, of course he does. And he asks what they’ve done until now to get his money back.

He has a van with him and in the van is a young man, being held down by two of Saito’s employees, with a metal bolt thicker than Eames’ thumb rammed down into his foot. It’s bleeding. Eames tries not to stare. He is crying and screaming, but it’s muffled through the gag. Saito asks if they know him, but they both just shake their heads.

“Get my money, gentlemen,” is what Saito says as a goodbye. Get my money, or you will end up like this one, he doesn’t say. Or – Get my money, I know you had something to do with it. Get my money, this is your last chance.

Eames looks at Peter, who is pale and sweaty.

_Oh Peter. Did you know that guy?_

_You find the money, two days later. In a black trash bag hanging in your backyard. With a severed arm in it, bleeding the notes. There is a watch around the wrist. You feel numb._

* * *

> “What do you mean?” 
> 
> Robert’s voice has no inflection at all, but Arthur knows it’s a threat. His hand is resting on the handle of the car door, while looking at the other. 
> 
> “That I don’t want to invite you in for coffee,” he repeats, voice blank. His fingers curl around the door handle and he opens it. The light in the car blinks on and something flashes over Robert’s face. 
> 
> “Are you sure about that?” the man replies, lifting his brows inquiringly, as if he is doing Arthur a favor in giving him a second chance, when all Arthur wants to do is break his nose and slam the car door after getting out. Instead he inhales deeply, narrows his eyes.
> 
> “Yes”.
> 
> “You remember it’s Dom’s case getting rubber stamped in three weeks,” Robert casually reminds him as he looks out of the window, pulling the key out of the car, so the light goes out. Arthur’s heart sinks, dread filling his brain, making him feel as if slowly starting to lose air in the small inside space. He pulls the door close again and sees Robert starting to smile, before turning to look at him again, eyes seemingly to laugh at Arthur. 
> 
> “What are you insinuating?” Arthur tries to keep calm, even with his hands starting to go slippery on the door handle he is still gripping. His neck goes hot and cold, while Robert slowly leans closer, smiling. 
> 
> “I’m not insinuating anything,” he replies smoothly as he leans over the gear into his space and Arthur closes his eyes. 
> 
> He tries to think of something else, anything else. Three weeks. He can do three weeks.
> 
> Robert has him by the balls. Knows he can do whatever he wants and Arthur will let it happen.
> 
> _Giving someone that much power over you reveals how very ugly people can be on the inside._
> 
> It works.
> 
> It works for a week and a half.
> 
> He shoves Robert off when his cold fingers touch skin Arthur doesn’t want touched anymore. It’s already far too late, but he can’t do it anymore, he _can’t_ , not even for Dom. He thought he could, but he can’t and he is shoving him off, ignoring Robert’s warning to be still.
> 
> Robert looks caught off, only for a second, then his eyes grow ugly and his mouth twists into a sneer. “Fine. Have _fun_ telling your best friend that he can forget getting custody for his kids,” Roberts snaps at Arthur, who is holding his throbbing neck, breathing harshly, ears ringing.
> 
> The front door slams shut, waking Arthur out of his shock and in absolute horror he realizes what he just did.
> 
> And then everything suddenly happens so quickly, Arthur can later not retell what exactly occurs in those following moments. 
> 
> He remembers running out of the front door, the screeching sounds of tires and honking and then pain, the world turning upside down and the coldness of the pavement when he lands on the ground and then everything goes black.
> 
> The next thing he knows is being loaded into an ambulance. And then he is in a hospital bed. And then he has to talk to the police. And then he has to go to court. And he has to negotiate with his health insurance.
> 
> And then he can’t go outside anymore without panicking.
> 
> And then he has to listen to Cobb telling him he lost custody. And Arthur doesn’t tell him it’s his fault. And then Cobb makes sure Arthur can work from home. And Arthur feels horrible. He feels so _horrible_ that he wishes that car would have run him over completely.
> 
> _Does it make you a good friend when you agree to string someone, who can push your friend’s case in favor of the evaluation, along? Or does it make you a liar to try and manipulate? And what happens when you can’t go through with it and your friend loses his children because of it? Is it your fault?_
> 
> _And what does it make someone who uses this situation? Uses you? And then lets a father lose his kids because someone rejected them?_
> 
> “What am I going to do now…” Cobb rests his face in his hands, leaning with his elbows on Arthur’s kitchen table, while the other grips his tea cup with white knuckled fingers, not trusting himself to speak. 
> 
> “I lost Mal and now I lost James and Philippa, too,” the blonde continues, voice muffled as he hides his whole head in his arms now, undoubtedly crying silently. Arthur hunches his bony shoulders and stares into his tea. 
> 
> It’s my fault, he screams in his head, it’s all my fault. The bandages around his neck and shoulders feel as if they’re tightening more and more, trying to suffocate him silently. The stitches burn with guilt.
> 
> “God, I’m sorry, Arthur,” Cobb groans, rubbing his face violently with his hands and combing through his hair, before looking up at him, shaking his head. Arthur stares back, startled. “I came here to check up on you and I’m just- talking about myself, god. I’m sorry. With what happened to you-“Cobb gestures to Arthur, who feels cold sweat running down his back, nauseous with shame. “How are _you_? How are you holding up?”
> 
> Arthur wants to sink into the ground to escape the incredible feeling of guilt threatening to drown him.
> 
> “I’m okay,” he lies, voice faint and he holds onto the tea like a life belt, as if it is the only thing keeping him afloat. 
> 
> Cobb nods and smiles at him, because he knows it’s not true, but he seems to appreciate the effort. Doesn’t push him. “Don’t worry about it, I’m gonna talk to Miles, we can work around this,” Cobb vaguely waves to the kitchen window and Arthur stiffens, “Make sure you can work from home, until you’re better”. 
> 
> Arthur didn’t think he could feel even worse than before.
> 
> _When you can’t even leave the house anymore, what are you? Scared? Broken? Damaged? When he offers you help, although all of this happened just because of you and you still don’t tell him – does that make you a bad person? Or just a coward?_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Something about Robert always gave me the vibes that he could turn really nasty if circumstances were different, to be honest? Might also be the fact that the same actor is impersonating Scarecrow in Batman :'D So, that's why I put him into this role, instead of anyone else.


End file.
